12
The past is as clear as a mirror, the future as dark as lacquer.
—Chinese proverb
November 11, 1887
Idaho Territorial Penitentiary
From the guard tower, the warden’s deputy blew his whistle, announcing the arrival of the new prisoners. As flakes of snow sifted from the gray sky, the cagelike cart holding eight prisoners rolled through the open double gates of the Idaho Territorial Penitentiary. Harlen Riley got his first glimpse of the cold-looking two-story brick building that was to be his holding place for the next twenty years—if he allowed himself to think on those terms. Which he didn’t. Richard was going to get him out. Soon. He’d already petitioned Governor Edward A. Stevenson for a pardon. Harlen knew he could count on his attorney to plea successfully for his release. Robison had never let him down.
The icy clink of ankle manacles and the short lengths of chain that dangled from the cuffs of prisoners made the autumn air seem colder. Harlen wished for a thicker coat, but his Mackinaw and a worsted shirt were all he’d been allowed. His clothing, except for what he was wearing, and his expensive possessions had been taken from him at Montpelier.
The wheels of the cart hit a rut, and the convicts sitting on the three benches bumped into one another. It had been that way the whole ride. Knocking and hitting shoulders and knees on a trip that had lasted nearly four days without much of a letup except to change horses at various posts. They were given only the distance of the stage stop entrance to walk to. Then they had to sit and eat an unpalatable meal in minutes before walking back to the cart. Harlen was dying to stand up and exercise his stiff legs.
After rolling to a rattling stop, one of the guards came over to the cart and took the key from the driver, who unlocked the cage.
“Out with you! Now!” he barked, with his hand on the butt of his gun to stress that he meant business.
Harlen rose and put his foot on the narrow strip of wood that served as a step-down. Needles shot through his feet, and his knees almost buckled. He wasn’t able to move much with the constricting confines of iron on his legs.
The whistle blew a marching tune, as if the prisoners were required to step to the beat and march in line. Most of them wobbled, Harlen included. He could barely walk much less march.
As soon as the men were lined up to the deputy’s specifications, a man dressed in a shin-length coat with a scarf around his thick neck came out of a building off to the side and behind the guard tower. He was solid-looking, built like the stone edifices surrounding him. The soft crust of frozen snow crunched beneath the heels of his polished boots as he approached them.
The deputy ceased his whistling when the man halted and gave the prisoners a narrow going-over. After a thorough inspection that started from one end of the line to the other, the man nodded to the deputy guard.
“You may proceed,” he decreed, as he rubbed his gloved hands together.
Withdrawing a small paper-filled ledger from his coat pocket, the deputy let the whistle drop from his mouth to hang around his neck by a leather thong. “It is my duty, on orders from Warden Ezra Baird, to inform you of the prison rules. They will be strictly enforced. Anyone caught breaking a rule either will be penalized by privileges being taken away or, if the punishment so allows it, will be held in the solitary known as Siberia for a duration of time appropriate to the severity of the disobedience. The rules are as follows in accordance with the government of prisoners . . .”
He rattled off a long list. Harlen comprehended a few, noting key words and phrases, cursing them in his mind.
Perform labor . . . no profane language . . . no loud talking . . . no loafing in the shop area . . . no gambling or card playing . . . allowed to write only two letters . . . conversation at the dining table prohibited . . . no files, saws, or chisels . . .
“At the blowing of the first whistle in the morning,” the deputy bellowed sternly, “each prisoner must arise, make up his bed neatly, sweep up his cell, empty his night bucket, and prepare for the morning meal. At the second whistle each will take his cup and march, in single file, to the table and remain standing till the whistle sounds the signal to be seated. At the close of the meal the signal will be given to rise and pass, in single file, to the cells; at the next whistle everyone will pass out into the yard to be assigned to their respective works for the day. At the blowing of the whistle at noon every prisoner will enter his cell and will await the signal for dinner, which will be the same as for breakfast. The signals for supper are the same as above; after his meal each prisoner will return to his cell and close the door to be locked. After the final lockup, the whistle will sound and everyone must arise, place his right hand on the door of his cell, and wait until he is counted by the turnkey or the guard. At the blowing of the whistle at nine o’clock P.M., all lights must be extinguished in the cells and the prisoners retire and preserve absolute silence till the blowing of the whistle in the morning. When for any reason the whistle shall blow out at any time, every prisoner will march to his cell without delay.
“These rules will be strictly enforced and any infraction hereof will incur in severe punishment and forfeiture of one or all of the privileges allowed good conduct.
“The aforementioned is signed by the warden of this territory, the governor, the secretary of state, and the attorney general, and has been presented to the Board of Prison Commissioners for Idaho. So long as you all obey the rules, you will serve your time in relative comfort.”
Harlen didn’t want any part of the rules and regulations. They were outlandish and would be impossible to abide by. No one could tell him when he had to get up and when he had to go to bed. Christ, he hoped Robison was working hard on his case this very minute.
The deputy’s whistle shrilled, and the warden went back into the building from which he’d come. Harlen speculated that the man had a nice toasty fire and a bottle of brandy to keep him warm. What Harlen wouldn’t have done for a drink and a smoke at this moment. He’d been sober since his capture, and he’d been having a hell of time going straight. His hands shook and his fingers trembled. He was sick to his stomach and his pants were loose around his waist.
No sooner had the warden left than the deputy motioned for them to follow him. Harlen went, because he had no choice. As he walked across the yard, pain shot through his legs from not having used them in so many days. Trying to keep an even stride, he gazed at the forlorn structures of the compound. Men in uniforms pitched hay into piles at a stable, while others huddled in front of another building over a laundry tub. The flames beneath the black iron kettle looked so inviting, Harlen had a mind to walk over and warm his hands. But there was a guard at his side with a mean-looking Colt Harlen had no desire to test.
Along with the others, he was led into the two-story cell block where the air inside was so cold, his breath misted in front of his face.
“You’ll change into your uniforms and report to the doors of your cells in five minutes for work detail,” the deputy said as the guards ushered them into vacant cells. There weren’t more convicts than cells, so the men didn’t have to double up. At least Harlen could be grateful for that one thing. He wasn’t any good rooming with strangers.
After his chains had been removed, he was shoved into a six-foot-by-six-foot barred cubicle with a solitary cot, two wool blankets, a uniform and patched coat, and a utility bucket. The iron door closed with a harsh clank that rang more lamentably than a blacksmith’s anvil as he shaped a grave arch.
Harlen stood in the center of the sandstone floor, the cold seeping through the soles of his boots. He’d wronged a great many people in his young life, and he supposed he owed them and should be paying the penalty for doing such. But this seemed beyond reasonable restitution. This was hell in the worst way.
Lowering himself onto the cot, Harlen put his head in his hands and stared at the tips of his wet boots. Christ Almighty, he had to get out. He couldn’t make it. Twenty years in here was certain
death. He’d wish he was laid out on an undertaker’s table. The words from that little girl in Telluride would come true.
Little Darling . . . If she could see him now, she’d have her satisfaction.
“Three minutes!” That damn whistle blew several sharp notes, causing Harlen to grimace hard.
He lifted the shirt on the bed and gazed at the number that had been sewn onto the breast pocket. He was no longer a man with a reputation to be reckoned with. All that was in the past. He was one of society’s outcasts now.
With a shiver of understanding, Harlen Shepard Riley lost his notorious name to a number. He became known as Territorial Convict Number 628 and put in Cell House Number One, where forty-two double-brick cells were occupied by some of the worst delinquents he would ever have the misfortune to encounter.
13
The light of a hundred stars does not equal the light of the moon.
—Chinese proverb
The Complete Guide to Italian Cooking arrived in the morning’s post and Leah had immersed herself in the tome, reading up on the various preparations of Italian dishes. For this evening’s supper, she’d chosen to tackle the main staple: Italian gravy with pasta.
It had been a fluke, really, that Wyatt was coming over to try her first attempt at something extravagant. Leah had gone to the Happy City after dinner to get some fresh garlic and tomatoes from Leo’s garden for the preparation of the dish. She’d found Leo weeding and Wyatt watering with a garden hose. Normally, the two should have been inside readying the restaurant for opening.
Leah had approached them with a friendly greeting as she entered the short gate that kept stray dogs out of the garden. “I didn’t expect to see you two outside.”
Leo had lifted his head, and Wyatt turned in her direction.
“Good to see you, Leah,” Leo replied.
Leah found herself studying Wyatt’s lean face and features. He’d wrapped a faded red bandanna around his forehead to keep the hair from his eyes, and he’d rolled the sleeves to his pale blue shirt above his elbows. Shifting his weight, he kept aiming water on a row of peas as he said, “Hello, Leah,” in a voice that was resonant and made gooseflesh rise across the nape of her neck.
She’d done everything she could to erase Wyatt’s kiss from her memory, but it was useless. She could no more forget than she could stop breathing. His words had had a profound affect on her. She’d wondered what kind of life he’d had where softness had no part. Where had he been?
She wouldn’t press him for details. She’d detected that he was a private man about his past. She respected that, but at the same time she longed to know all there was about him in the time they had together.
“Hello, Wyatt,” she replied as she drew up to Leo. “Are you opening late today for some reason?”
Leo straightened and rested his fist over the top of the hoe’s handle. “Not opening at all. Tu Yan is sick. He can’t cook.”
“It’s nothing serious, is it?”
“Just a cold,” Leo said around the cigarette gripped by his lips. “He should be better tomorrow and we’ll open.” Grinning, he gave her a short wink. “I guess this puts you in the kitchen tonight.”
“Well, actually, I was planning on cooking anyway.”
“You’re kidding?”
“I’m not. My Italian cookbook came this morning.”
“Ah.”
Wyatt went to turn the valve and shut the water off. Then he came over and ran his damp hand down the side of his pants. She never got over how good he looked when he was working outdoors.
“Since the Happy City will be closed tonight, and since I’ve got a new recipe I was planning on trying, you’re both welcome to share supper with us.”
“Not me, Leah,” Leo replied, pitching his cigarette. “I’ve got things to do.”
She had invited Leo over once before for Christmas cheer, but he’d politely declined for unstated reasons. She feared he wasn’t comfortable in her house because of his ethnicity, even though he was as American as she. Leah would have never allowed Geneva to make any untoward remark, but Leah also knew there were others who wouldn’t have been kind. It was accepted that she was friends with Leo because she patronized his establishment. But outside of the Happy City, a personal association that could be misconstrued wouldn’t have been approved of. Still, that didn’t stop Leah from trying to include him.
“But Wyatt, you go,” Leo said, “and tell me what you think of Italian cooking.”
Wyatt slipped the flats of his hands into his denim pockets. “I reckon I could.”
Leah had to slow her breathing. Not because he’d said he was coming; she hoped she didn’t mess up or burn anything. The hot dogs had gone over marginally well, because the margin for failure was minimal. But Wyatt had kept kidding about them, asking what kind of dog they used to make them. He’d had Tug in stitches, but Leah couldn’t help thinking that Wyatt really didn’t know that hot dogs weren’t made from dogs.
“That’s wonderful,” Leah replied. “I’ll have supper ready at six.”
“All right.”
Then Leah had gotten the garlic and tomatoes from Leo and had ensconced herself in the kitchen for the next three hours. She’d scorched the garlic twice and had to throw it out. The third time, she knocked the coals down low enough so that she had more control over the heat. The garlic softened to clear yet didn’t turn brown, just like the instructions said. After that, she’d added onions and the rest of the ingredients. And there were a lot of them. She made sure each one was measured out exactly. But when she got to the basil, she accidently poured too much in and had to try and fish out the excess. When the last mashed tomato had been added, Leah put the lid on the pot and let the gravy simmer.
That done, she went upstairs to freshen up and change while Rosalure and Tug were outside in the gazebo playing house. When Leah had done a decent job of arranging her hair with a lavender ribbon, and buttoned on her eleven-gored jumper dress with its puff-sleeved blouse and smart lace bow tie at the throat, she went downstairs as the clocks were chiming the half hour. She hoped nothing would go wrong from now until six. Thirty long minutes. Most especially, she hoped Geneva and Hartzell had made up from their tiff so Geneva wouldn’t show up on her doorstep again.
Earlier, her mother-in-law had come over in a tizzy because Hartzell had threatened—once again—to cut off her allowance. The pricey bill had come for her Quaker Thermal Turkish cabinet, along with an order statement from the Niagara Manufacturing Co. for a double-spigot Niagara bath spray. Not to mention the bills from L. P. Hollander & Co. on Fifth Avenue for the winter fur coat she’d sent away for, and the bottle of Ed Pinaud’s Famous quinine hair tonic had arrived—C.O.D. All of which had Hartzell in a royal fit, or so Geneva claimed.
Leah listened to the tirade for as long as she could stand, then sent Geneva on her way with forced reassurance that everything would be all right. But her mother-in-law went down the walk blowing her nose into an embroidered handkerchief, and Leah had the feeling that the end was not yet soon to come. Geneva would be harping about the unfairness of her tightwad husband and would get her way in the long run. As usual.
After putting on the water for the noodles, Leah selected her favorite Puccini Grand Opera recording for the phonograph, La Bohème. Just as Signora Resky’s clarion voice carried through the parlor, making Leah smile, the new doorbell rang.
Taking a deep breath, Leah walked to the foyer, paused at the oak-framed mirror, smoothed her hair and any unseen wrinkles in the gored skirt, then opened the door.
Wyatt stood at the threshold, hat in hand, hair damp and combed away from his forehead, holding a bouquet of pastel sweet peas that were slightly droopy from the heat. Leah was touched by his thoughtfulness.
“Please, come in.” She stepped aside so that he could enter.
“Something smells good,” Wyatt commented as he hung his hat on a coat tree hook.
Yes, Leah thought, and breathed in shaving soap. It was
nice to have the masculine smell of Mennen back in the house. She gazed at him with a warm feeling. Wyatt’s fresh, clean hair was thick and ever so slightly the color of polished silver at the temples. She liked that. It gave him distinction and strength in his face.
“These are for you, from Leo and me.” Wyatt stretched out his hand to present the sweet peas. Leo grew the flowers on a trellis in his garden and he knew she enjoyed their subtle fragrance.
“How kind.”
Though they had been in each other’s company enough times not to get tongue-tied, the stress of formality weighed on Leah. She felt very self-conscious and nervous, as if this were her first encounter with Wyatt alone.
“Well . . . come this way,” Leah managed to say. “Supper is about ready. All I have to do is drain the noodles. Why don’t you sit down while I get a vase for these?”
Leah walked into the parlor, Wyatt following. Turning to face him, she asked, “Would you care for something to drink? I have brandy. My late husband occasionally indulged and there is a bottle left.”
“No thanks.”
“Oh, well, would you like a Coca-Cola, then?” She’d gone to the mercantile and stocked up on twelve bottles.
“I’m fine for now.”
“All right.” She could smell the pasta and water . . . and the scorch of a pan. Alarm flashed through her. “Ah, excuse me. I have to check something.”
Leah went through the connecting pocket doors that led into the dining room with as much grace as she could muster, given the sure emergency of removing the pot from the burner. She headed straightaway for the kitchen, plunked the flowers on the sideboard, and reached without care to remove the pan.
“Ouch!” She pulled her hand back and sucked on her fingers while grabbing a pot holder. Whisking the pan off the stove, she realized that it hadn’t been the noodles burning. There was sufficient water. It must have been the drops of moisture bubbling over the sides and landing on the stove top. But for some reason, her noodles were stuck together in a glob. Perhaps she should have kept on stirring them.
Portraits Page 20